


Harvest

by Hope



Category: Firefly, Serenity (2005)
Genre: AU, Gen, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-04
Updated: 2005-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/34016.html</p></blockquote>





	Harvest

Jayne is resolutely silent as Simon stitches him up, expression grim within the frame of dried blood that's trickled from the gash on his scalp, the only suggestion of response in the tense lines of his body the flinching of muscle as Simon's latex coated fingers brush the skin over his ribs as he dabs at another wound.

"You know," Simon says at length, trying another approach, nearing exasperation but not letting it show in his voice. "You run the risk of further complications if you don't tell me how this happened." Jayne doesn't budge, and Simon allows himself a slight frown, masked by concentration as he leans in closer to delicately slide the curved needle in, out, pull carefully tight.

Jayne grunts, and Simon looks up abruptly, concerned the anesthetic's worn off. Jayne's looking away, head back and tilted up into a far corner of the infirmary. "Ain't nothing complicated about it," he grits, and, without looking back down at Simon, loosens the fists he'd been holding taught by his hips and rests them on his belly.

_Oh._ Simon thinks he might have made a noise; his mouth is open, but he's already slid a thumb beneath Jayne's knuckles (warm, and damp) and is tilting the hand toward the light, where the blood rushes back to fill the inflamed scrapes, no longer white-taut and hidden.

Jayne's breath hisses a little through his teeth and he flinches back as Simon leans too close, breath stinging the open wounds. Simon apologises automatically, draws back a little, mind still running at high speed, flicking through the pages of his time at the medacad, his own personal reading, years of knowledge built up and catalogued in intricate detail; he looks at the gashes on Jayne's chest, skin around them stained by the antiseptic. Four lines, parallel, starting and finishing at slightly different points, deep and angry.

He finds Jayne's looking at him when he looks up again, and their eyes lock before Simon looks away, back down to Jayne's knuckles, the torn knees of his trousers, the claw-marks on his chest, bruised shoulders. "How--" he begins, not sure where to start. "How often--?"

Jayne, for once, is strangely canny, if as simple in his speech as ever. He shrugs tensely. "Depends. What planet we're on. What moons they got. What time of the month."

Simon nods slowly as the threads begin to draw together more firmly in his mind. "And the others…?"

Jayne smirks a little half-heartedly. "That's the good thing about bein' in space. No particular moon cycle to speak of, seems random chance more'n not when we touch down somewhere at that particular time. I ain't been aboard this ship long enough for them to find out. At least I don't think. I can't…" He looks away again, briefly,fists tightening again. "I can't remember. Much. When it happens." The muscles in his jaw bunch beneath the sandpaper stubble. "Though sometimes... it..." he swallows harshly, and Simon, recognising the signs, quickly reaches for a pan and arranges it in time to catch the hot rush of vomit, a cascade of red that sparks alarm before he realises what it is; seeing in it splinters of bone, tufts of fur. _Not hair,_ a part of his mind asserts. _Fur, not hair._

Jayne gasps convulsively and Simon feels it; realises he's placed his hand over the neat row of stitched claw marks, as if to ineffectually hold the stitches in place against the violent movement. He sets the pan down. Jayne's still breathing hard, mouth red, teeth white after he swipes his tongue over them. Unbidden, as always, Simon's mind sharpens them, makes the tongue lolling in a broader jaw, narrow snout, dark fur spiked.

Jayne's breathing calms, Simon feels the movement slow through his palm, the wounds lashes of heat through the latex. "You won't..." Jayne's voice is raw, a growl. "You won't tell the others, will you?" It's barely a question, and Simon drops his gaze first. Jayne's breath smells of acid, and rotting meat, Simon's mind provides the rancid feel of it against his throat, slick teeth. He jerks his hand away.

"Of course not," he says, limbs stiff as he finally steps away from the examining table, the prickle of hair rising on the back of his neck. He resists the strong urge not to turn his back, forces a smile, even though Jayne can't see it. "Of course not."

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/34016.html


End file.
